I was pissed. Tired and pissed. The night had turned sour as soon as the music had stopped and the lights gave me away. Everyone had pulled out their phones, wanting to get a good shot of the bad boy prince, the bastard.

I spun the guy around and watched as rage came over his facial expression.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he asked, stepping between me and the photographer I’d been thinking about and looking for the last two hours—but I would deal with her later.

“I’m the man who is going to tell you politely to move on,” I said, my voice hard as cut steel.

I had seen the altercation as soon as I walked toward the outside, the look on her face as this idiot had tried to rough her up a little, making my conscience squirm uncomfortably. No one else was paying much attention to them, but she looked like she was scared, and I couldn’t very well walk past and leave her to her own devices. Besides, I had business with her anyway, specifically a photo I couldn’t allow to hit the front page. “It’s obvious the lady here doesn’t want your company, so do the right thing and walk away.”

He reached up and jabbed me hard in my chest with his finger, his eyes blazing mad now. “You need to butt out of my business. Don’t you have some ribbon to cut somewhere?”

“Brent, leave him alone,” the photographer said, grabbing his arm. He shook her off with a violent push and caused her to stumble back. Her legs gave out and she sprawled onto the pavement. I saw red. That was the last straw, but I managed to resist slamming my fist into his face. Instead I pushed him out of the way, reached down and grabbed her hand.

“Are you hurt?” I asked softly as she stared up at me with tears in her eyes. Her eyes were mesmerising, and this close, even in the dim light, I could see they were strangely coloured, special.

“No,” she said, withdrawing her hand from mine and pushing herself up off the street. “I’m okay—watch out!”

The warning came too late. I felt the weight of a fist on my back, and I ended up on the ground myself, instinctively rolling over as Brent reached for me. My reflexes kicked in, and I caught him with a right hook to the jaw, sending him tumbling this time. He bellowed and launched at me, rugby-tackling me around the knees and sending both of us flying. He landed a punch against my cheek, and I felt the sting of the blow, some of it muffled by the shots of tequila I’d downed right before leaving the VIP section.

I reared back to hit him and felt a soft hand on my arm, clenching it tightly. “Please don’t. Please stop! Both of you.”

I looked over to the find the tear-streaked face of the photographer, her eyes pleading for me to stop. Who was this asshole to her? He deserved to have his ass kicked, and she was protecting him? I reached up and grabbed at her camera, fury and anger rolling through my veins.

“What were you going to do with it?” I shouted, ripping the camera out of her hands and throwing it across the street. Her expression was pained as she stared in the direction of the battered camera. Shit. I knew I shouldn’t be angry at her, and her defeated expression made me feel like a complete asshole. She was just trying to get a picture, a story on the black sheep of the royal family like the rest of them, and I was making it painfully easy for them all.

“Shit,” I said aloud this time, just before pain exploded at my side as Brent charged again. I fell over, grabbing my ribs as he jumped on me. But just as suddenly, he was gone, and I was hauled to my feet. My arms were wrenched behind my back. “What the hell?” I shouted as I felt the tight confines of zip ties on my wrists. “Do you know who I am?”

“Don’t care who you are, lad. You’re being charged with drunk and disorderly behaviour,” a voice said from behind, gripping my hands and moving me forward.

“But he tried to stop him!” I heard the photographer say as I was marched through the growing crowd. Light flashes blinded me momentarily as I walked toward the waiting police van, the impact of what had just happened hitting me like a ton of bricks. Father might not have cared for my bare ass, but he was going to disown me for this. Fuck, and I was only trying to help.

I lifted my head to see Andrew staring at me through an opened rectangular slit in the heavy door, his mouth curved into a slight smile. “Why are you here?”

Andrew motioned to someone on the other side, and the cell door was opened. “I’m here to bail you out, brother. You do realise getting yourself arrested is pretty much the complete opposite of getting your act together, right?”

I sighed loudly and pushed up off the hard bunk. No matter what I said, neither he nor father would believe me. We were escorted through a narrow hallway lined with dirty cream tiles to the station’s front desk. The officer behind the desk handed over my belongings. I took the zip-lock bag that contained my wallet, watch and mobile from him and shoved them into my pockets. “Andrew, I didn’t do this on purpose.”

“Of course not,” Andrew said, turning toward the exit. “You never do.”

I followed him out of the police station, squinting at the sunrise. We were quickly joined by two of Andrew’s royal guards, who flanked us on either side as we walked to the waiting car. “I assume I have been summoned again?”

Andrew bent in to retrieve something and after grasping what he was looking for, he slapped a paper against my chest. “Get in. You made the front page once again.”

Sliding into the car’s cool interior, I threw the bag onto the leather seat and opened up the paper, wincing at the sight of me throwing a punch at the asshole who had landed me here. “At least they got my best side. Wonder if I get a prize if I make it three days in a row?”

Andrew let out a half laugh, half choking sound and ran a hand over his face as he handed me his mobile phone. “Yeah, it’s called exile. But wait there’s more. You’re the talk of every social media site as well. It’s worldwide now.”

“Hell,” I cursed, watching the replay of the fight shot from a mobile. Damn technology and social media platforms.

“Hell is right,” Andrew sighed, taking the phone back and slipping it into his jacket pocket. Despite it being the crack of dawn, Andrew was dressed to the nines, his suit pants perfectly creased and his periwinkle blue tie complimenting his blue eyes. I, on the other hand, was still in my dress shirt that was covered with dirt and whatever ever was on the ground during the fight, with no tie and the black pants I’d paired it with nearly twelve hours before. “Care to tell me why you did this? Maybe if I know, I can have a word with father.”

I thought back to the photographer who had snapped a picture of my bare ass as I was fucking the unnamed blonde in the bathroom, and the way her expression had changed as she’d been approached by that asshole of a boyfriend. Instinct had taken over.

“Was it worth it at least?” Andrew continued, taking my silence as not wanting to explain myself.

“Yeah,” I said, looking out of the window as the car wound its way up to the palace. “It was worth it.”

The doors opened a few minutes later, and we both climbed out and walked through the private entrance in silence. The palace had always been an oddity for me; my teenage years were not all happy ones in this place. From the time I had found out I was the product of the future king’s dalliance, I knew my life was going to be different. My father had taken me in, provided me an education alongside my half-brother, Andrew, and ensured comfort in my life. But despite all of my father’s attempts to make up for my upbringing and lost years, I still felt unwelcome in this place. I had never truly been at home here.

Andrew led me to the study and opened the door, allowing me to enter first. My father was waiting behind his massive desk, his wife seated not far from his side, her eyes glittering with hate. Princess Agatha Beatrice Stuart York was from a long line of royal blood—and she loved to remind me of it—so it had been no surprise when she married the future king of England almost thirty years ago. She hated me, and the feeling was mutual. “Your Highness,” I said mockingly as I sat in the chair opposite my father.

“How dare you behave in this manner?” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “You are a disgrace to this family!”

“I have never been in your family,” I replied, seeing her eyes flare with rage.

“Enough!” my father bellowed, causing his wife to hold her tongue for once. He turned toward me, a familiar look of disappointment on his face. “I thought I had made myself perfectly clear yesterday.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” I said, the words echoing off the walls and sounding small to my own ears.

“It never is, Edward,” he sighed. “It never is.”

I could taste the retort on my tongue, but I couldn’t form the words. The disappointment in my father’s voice this time had a profound effect on me. I had dragged him through hell over the years, my name connected to a number of stunts I had pulled in an attempt to be my own person. I hated the fact I was linked with the royal bloodline and had no earthly desire to be part of it. But I was, and no matter how hard I tried to shake the fact, I still was dragging down the York name with my antics.

“I gave you a chance,” my father was saying, clasping his hands behind his back, “and this stunt has forced my hand, Edward.”

I swallowed a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. Was he going to banish me to parts unknown? I didn’t think that had happened in centuries… but I wouldn’t put it past him.

“I’m taking your allowance away.”

Shit, that was worse than exile. Without my father’s backing, I had nothing. The flat I lived in was his, the cars I drove, the bank accounts I tapped into regularly, they were all his. I would be out on the street. But maybe it would be better that way?

“You will receive no further support from me,” he continued, the weight of his words driving nails into the lid of my coffin. I had pushed him too far, even though this time it hadn’t been intentional. He was throwing down the gauntlet, separating me from this life that I hated. So why did I feel so damn bad about it?

“Give me a month,” I blurted out, the panic welling up inside. “A month, and I will clean up my image.”

“Ha! He’s baiting you,” Agatha replied, a smug smile on her face. “Give him a month, and god knows what he’ll do next. You can’t take that chance.” I fought the urge to shoot her the middle finger as I looked at my father, his blue eyes focused on mine.

“Give me a month, please. If I don’t clean it up, I will gladly walk away from everything.”

“A month,” my father replied, an amused look on his face. “All right. You get a month.”

Agatha tutted disapprovingly. I let out a breath and nodded, my heart hammering in my chest. A month to clean up my image? Shit, I might as well be packing up my stuff now.